Sparrow on a Rooftop
by WatsonsWarrior
Summary: Sherlock doesn't have any intentions of making friends with the new boy who just moved in beside them. It doesn't help that they're going to school together, that John is slightly less boring than everyone else he has met, or that their windows are directly across from each other- a simple climbing distance. A teen!lock AU. Featuring the British Government and occasionally Greg.
1. Chapter 1

There is a post on tumblr that I keep seeing, floating around. It is a picture of houses that are almost set right up against each other. Two windows have roof underneath them that jut out and meet the opposite window/roof. The idea wouldn't leave me alone. Maybe this has already been done for this fandom, but I haven't seen it if it has been. Take note that this is completely AU, although I will try to keep characters in character as much as a teen!lock fix will allow.

As usual, the disclaimers apply: I don't own Sherlock, BBC or Arthur Conan Doyle verse, nor any of the characters of titles. I make no money off of this.

Here goes.

Chapter One

Sunsets

Sherlock had never been the one to make friends. It wasn't that he didn't want them, or that he couldn't have made them believe he was their type of friend to hang out with- no, he just couldn't deal with the pressure. He'd never needed anyone else, and when he had, Mycroft was his go to. Sherlock was content, or rather-comfortable-with spending his evenings alone, doing research or working on new projects. His bedroom was a menagerie of different projects, which he cycled through every couple of weeks. Beside his bed were the plants and other growing things that needed sunlight, or heat. On the desk were stacks of schools book, propping up various projects and experiments he was working on. In another corner sat his telescope, and a violin. The wall opposite his bed was lined with books, illustrations, and maps. Upon seeing his room, one would either conclude that _a.) Sherlock was a very proficient 17 year old, who loved science and probably kept to himself because he was deemed "geeky,"_ or, b_.), that his parents spoiled him and he probably had a group of snobby friends at the private boys school he no doubt attended._ What there was no doubt about, however, was that he had plenty to keep himself entertained with. That is why, when the neighbors next door moved out, Sherlock didn't miss them. They had a son and a daughter around his age, but they were incredibly boring and typical.

So, when the new family moved in, Sherlock's curiosity was only peaked as far as to inquire to Mycroft about what kind of people they seemed to be. Mycroft had shrugged and continued reading the paper without looking up. That was good enough for Sherlock. That evening, he opened his window and popped out the screen. Setting it aside, Sherlock crawled out onto the roof with his book. Sitting completely still, he breathed in the smells and sounds of London in the evening. Around him, in the surrounding streets, he could hear voices murmuring and people yelling to each other. Somewhere there was a dog barking. Beneath him, and slightly over, he could see the family bustling about in the house. The wife had the kitchen window open and he could smell their dinner cooking. Something good, judging by the smell. There was a boy, and a girl. Around his age. Sherlock settled in against the corner of his roof, opening his book to the dog-eared page he'd left off from.

It was a good fifteen minutes later before Sherlock realized he was being watched. Casually turning his page, Sherlock's eyes darted upward. He saw the figure, standing across from him in the next house's window. The boy quickly turned away, busying himself with a box. Sherlock's eyebrows raised as he watched the boy. His mind fired a hundred miles a minute. The boy was obviously going into the medical field, judging by the two-foot model skeleton hanging beside a pile of books, no doubt lesson books. He was well kept and made his bed. He moved slowly, predictably, but surely. So he was active. Sherlock watched as the girl entered his room and they conversed. The boy started using hand motions, shaking his head. Sherlock frowned as the girl wiped hastily at her eyes. He hated crying people. They were always so irrational. Crying helped nothing, did nothing to better the situation in any way whatsoever. He watched as the boy reached around his sisters shoulders and gave her a reassuring squeeze, rubbing her back for a moment before releasing her and turning back to his box. She left a moment later. Sherlock jumped when the boy turned toward him, stopping when he saw the returned glance. Sherlock sighed as the boy made his way to the window.

"Hello."

"Hello." Sherlock kept his voice monotone, hoping to disinterest the newcomer quickly.

"I'm John. John Watson. I guess we're neighbors, now."

"Mmm. It would appear so." Sherlock closed his book, looking up at the boy. He had dirty blond hair, with green eyes and broad shoulders. John smiled, the silence becoming awkward. After a moment-

"What's your name, then?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock." John looked at him, cocking his head to the side. "You sit out there often?"

"Only when it suits me."

John nodded. "Good to meet you, then, Sherlock." He nodded, and went to close the window. As he was turning, Sherlock noticed the jumper John was wearing. On it was a particularly familiar emblem. "Hey." The boy turned back to the window, eyebrows raised expectantly. Sherlock motioned toward him. "You going to Chelmsford for studying, then?" John, perplexed a moment, looked down at his top, then back up to Sherlock.

"Yeah, actually. Why?"

"Twelfth year?" Sherlock asked. John nodded. Sherlock smirked. "Wonderful. We're in the same year." Sherlock stood up, stretching his back, and the began crawling back in through his window. He waved a farewell at John and inserted the screen back into the window. Picking up his violin, Sherlock began to pluck at the strings until his mum called him down that evening. He would occasionally catch sight of his new neighbor, and he entertained himself making deduction about the boy and his family until he had exhausted every revenue. He wasn't sure what, but there was something different about this one. Something not so dull- and that really _was _something.

((Short, but I don't have a lot of time right now. Just had to get it started so I can have an idea of what I'm working with. Please R&R! I live on feedback. So. Go for it.))


	2. Chapter 2

(Thank you's go out to everyone who reviewed/followed/favorited, as well as "Z" and "Anonymous." Thank you for taking the time to leave me a comment. They made my day! Hope this continues to make you all happy. ;) Just as a general question, anything anyone would particularly like to see included in this story? Not promising anything, just wondering what the people think..)

As usual, disclaimer applies. Not making any money off of this, and in no way whatsoever do I own any of it. Just my own twisted ideas. Here we go. Chapter dos.

Chapter Two

Lessons in Learning

So far, John had only managed to conclude a couple of things about Sherlock. That he was not socially accepted at their school, that the boy was extremely talented at everything he did, and that he somehow knew everything about everyone and wasn't ever wrong about it. Sherlock, on the other hand, had made more than a couple of promising deductions about his new, blond project.

1. John was the leader of the family. His father was probably an alcoholic or just an ass, Sherlock wasn't sure which yet.

2. John had a sister, Harriet, a pet ferret, and no lack of empathy for those around him.

3. John was a great source of new thoughts- the shorter boy may not think of them himself, but he certainly provided Sherlock with enough food for thought.

4. John was a bit different. In a good way.

He first noticed it-truly noticed it- the first day they went to school together. They were in maths class together when the teacher posed a trick-question to the class. The room was silent for all of three seconds before Sherlock busted out with the answer, proving that it wasn't an actual question in the first place since the answer was impossible due to some flaw in the figuring (that John still couldn't wrap his mind around.) The boy beside Sherlock had shook his head and slumped in his seat, sighing under his breath. _"Freak."_ Sherlock merely cast a sideways glance at the boy and narrowed his eyes. Sherlock would later tell John that this particular boy's name was Phil Anderson, and that he usually had a female counterpart running around the school with him who was equally as frustrating and, as Sherlock put it, "low on the totem pole."

Sometime later that day, they had met again in the library. John had just come from his first rugby practice, and Sherlock was blowing off chemistry again. _"I taught the teacher a large portion of what he is now teaching, therefore I don't see any reason to be there," _was the reason Sherlock gave John when he asked what he was doing here instead of in class. John merely shrugged, and sat down across from him.

"What're you reading, then?" John asked. Sherlock held up the book. _Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky. _John nodded. "Neat." Opening his own book, John began studying, occasionally looking up to make a note. After a little while, he noticed Sherlock staring at him. The boy looked around, brow furrowed. "What? What's wrong?"

"No, John- nothing." Sherlock bit his lip. "What do you want?"

John looked dumbfounded at the boy across from him. "What do you mean, what do I want? Have I- did I miss something?"

"I mean from me, what do you want? You haven't told me off yet and you haven't asked for anything yet, which is a new record for the amount of time you've spent around me."

"A record for- Sherlock, what're you going on about?" John closed his book, leaning his elbows on the table, hands lifted in front of him in confusion. Behind Sherlock, a boy and a girl entered the library. John recognized him from earlier as the boy from their class. Anderson. Suddenly, it clicked. John looked at Sherlock.

"I don't think you're weird and I don't want to use you for something, for anything." John shook his head at Sherlock. The boy opposite of him jerked his head up from where it had been resting between his hands, the curls bouncing as he did so. They sat completely still, looking at each other for a moment.

"Alright."

"Good, ok." John nodded at Sherlock, then awkwardly returned to reading his book. _That _was when Sherlock knew he liked John alright.

That night, everyone in London had their windows open. It was the first night it hadn't been foggy and misting, and they were taking full advantage of the weather. Sherlock sat cross-legged on his bed, plucking at his violin strings absent-mindedly. He was bored. School was boring, his experiments were all at a stage where they just needed time and patience, and he had nobody to bother. Mycroft wasn't around to make fun of- the eldest boy had gone on a run earlier and still hadn't returned.

A noise from across the way shook Sherlock out of his mood momentarily. Casting his violin to the side, Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and looked out the window at the head of his bed. John was in his own bedroom now, puttering around with the skeleton. He was charting something, it appeared. Within moments, Sherlock had made his mind up. It took him less than twenty seconds to have his screen pulled out, swing his legs outside the window, and make the tiny jump from one overhanging roof to another. John paid no attention, and jumped when Sherlock appeared beside him at his desk.

"Jesus, Sherlock. You scared me."

Sherlock beamed at John. "Sorry. Want some help?"

John glanced down at the skeletal parts strewn across his table, and then at the chart on his floor. He handed Sherlock a colored pencil and motioned to the chart. "Sure. Help me label, won't you?"

So, Sherlock spent the rest of his evening in John's room. They finished labeling and outlining, organizing and color-coding the chart within a matter of minutes, with Sherlock's help. He had everything memorized from head to toe (literally, in this case,) and was quick about it. The boys spent the rest of the evening playing cards and chatting. Sometimes they didn't talk at all. Sherlock found himself quite happy, and when he returned to his room after midnight sometime that night, he found that, for the first time in a long time, there was still someone he was looking forward to learning more about.

((So. Not sure how much I like this, but it's what I've got. I had the greatest epiphany about Lestrade and Moriarty and professors, horn rimmed glasses and sexy study time. enter maniacal laughter. Not sure what or if any of that will be included, but man. This could be hilarious. And I'm predicting some angst? But hey. That's just me... R&R, please! :))


	3. Chapter 3

Here goes. Third chapter. To answer the questions- I am not positive about whether or not this will be Johnlock. I have some ideas I'm toying with I think could definitely be fun. We will see. Anybody opposed to non-smutty Johnlock and/or other pairings? The one I feel I can't write is Sherlolly. I like it, but when I write it, I can't get it to flow very well. So. Opinions, opinions! I want them! :) Let me know.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, including summayah!

Onward to the next chapter. As usual, disclaimers: I don't own, I make no money off of, nor came up with any of the ideas/stories/characters from any of the Sherlock movies/books/tv shows. So.

Chapter Three

Unexpected

"Myc, where's Mum?" Sherlock stuck his head around the doorframe, peering into the well-lit kitchen where Mycroft sat at breakfast. Their mum was cooking at the stove. Sherlock made his way over to her and took the kettle from the stove, the shrill-whistling it had been emitting ceasing.

"What is it, darling? I'm trying to cook, here." His mum brushed his hair aside and patted him on the cheek. Sherlock swatted at her hand.

"I was wondering if John could come over for tea." The room went suddenly quiet, the sound of eggs sizzling and Mycroft turning a page the only sounds to be heard. There was a general pause, in which Sherlock shook his head at his mum. "Well?"

"Well, of course, Sherlock. Sure. What for?" His mum turned back to the eggs. Sherlock snatched a piece of toast.

"We're just going to.. I don't know."

"Hang out?" Mycroft suggested. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes, that. We're going to hang out." Sherlock quickly stole out of the kitchen, feeling strangely.. inspected. He knew it would be that way when he had asked, because he never had friends over. It was even more rare for him to have found someone he could tolerate being around, much less actually desire to be around. Making his way to his bedroom, Sherlock grabbed his backpack and hurried back down the stairs. Yelling a good-bye to his family, Sherlock slammed the door behind him and made his way to the flat next door. John was waiting for him, and the two made their way down the street together, the morning sun just beginning to stretch over the buildings, shining through the fog ever so slightly to illuminate the puddles on the street.

* * *

><p>School somehow went better around John. Sherlock didn't mean to say he enjoyed it more, but he didn't dislike it quite as much. John was ridiculously grateful for Sherlock, even if he didn't vocalize it, as being the new kid didn't often go well for him. He made friends easy enough, but nobody who figured out much about him seemed interested to be a <em>good <em>friend. John had thought Sherlock would be that way, sooner than later due to the boy's high perception of everything going on around him. John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock knew more than he had told him. But he had no complaints. Sherlock sat through rugby practice waiting on John that afternoon, and John introduced him to Gregory Lestrade.

"Greg," the boy said, reaching his hand out. Sherlock grasped it in his own, introducing himself. The boy nodded. "I know who you are. We were in a couple classes together last year." Sherlock's brow furrowed. He studied the boy's face.

"We did?" Sherlock glanced between Greg and John. His blond friend gave him a look. Sherlock nodded, faking recognition. "Ahh, yes. I believe I remember now.. physics?" Greg nodded, smiling.

"I'm just back to help coach the rugby team. I'm working at the Yard now. Training." Greg smiled.

"Before long, Greg'll be running the place, just you watch." John teased. Greg laughed, shaking his head. They parted, and John made his way over to his gear bag, slipping out of his rugby boots and into plain shoes. Sherlock opened his mouth twice, shutting it both times. It shouldn't be this hard to ask someone over. He just wasn't used to it. It wasn't until they were in a cab and on the way home before Sherlock finally decided that the best way to ask was also probably the simplest.

"Wanna come over for a cuppa this evening? We'll probably have takeout or something, since Mycroft won't cook when our parents aren't home. Mum's got a meeting tonight, and my dad is meeting her for dinner afterward. They'll take forever, probably. We'll have Chinese, I assume. If you don't want to, that's fine too. I just thought maybe you'd like to. We can work on homework, or not, if you don't want to. We could play cards and eat or anything you want, really." Sherlock glanced at John, who had just opened his mouth to speak. "Or we could spy on Mycroft. Always an option. Or you don't have-"

"No- yes. I mean, yes, of course I'll come over. I'll stop in and tell Harry where I'll be, then." John smiled. "Thanks for the invite." Sherlock nodded, and looked out the cab window so John wouldn't see him smirk like an idiot. Maybe this friend thing wasn't so bad.

When they finally piled out of the cab, John hurried into their flat while Sherlock waited on the stoop. After a moment, he heard voices nearing the door. Sherlock could only pick out bits of conversation. "Just call for some takeout...you want. But...back before he is...he gets." "'kay. See ya."The door opened, and Sherlock quickly turned to them as if in surprise. John exited, the door shut behind him by a thin, pretty girl, with eyes just like John's. She had a hand behind her, but Sherlock saw the folded money in her hand nonetheless. _From John. He's buying her dinner. Either their parents are out and they haven't been out for food or he's the normal supplier in circumstances. Most likely the second, judging by their conversation. _Sherlock thought for a moment about the implications that could be implied. _Both parents gone, too natural of behavior to be an odd situation, so they're gone often._

"So, your parents work, then?"

John looked up at the posed question, and blinked, hesitating before he answered. "Yeah, evenings." Sherlock didn't reply, simply making his way into his house. John introduced himself to Mycroft at Sherlock's lack of doing so, and laughed at the banter the two brothers exchanged. No love lost between those two. The boys made their way to Sherlock's room, dumping their school stuff in the floor. John wandered around Sherlock's room, inspecting the experiments and bubbling, unidentifiable substances in glass vials. Sherlock took pride in his work, listening to John mutter to himself. "Oh wow...Christ."

They spent the evening sprawled on the floor, playing cards. Like Sherlock had predicted, Mycroft brought Chinese takeout up to the room. The evening went quickly as it got progressively darker outside, clouds gathering across the skies and pouring down water on the roofs and streets. Sherlock threw his window open and stuck his head out, looking up at the sky, letting the rain fall on his face.

"Sherlock- hey, what're you doing?" John peered at Sherlock around the book he was marking, shaking his head when he saw the curly-haired boy. Sherlock ducked back inside, bouncy curls wet from the rain.

"It's exciting, John, being closer to the storm. Always invigorating. I'd love to go flying in this sort of weather."

John's eyebrows raised slightly. "Ever heard of a thing called lightning?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the boy on his floor.

"Ever heard of a thing called not caring?" At that, John rolled his eyes, laughing.

"Heard of a thing called death by electrocution? 'cause that's what'd happen if- oof!" John was promptly cut off by a book being thrown at him, hitting him mid-abdomen. "Sherlock! Hey!" A pillow came next, and John was bowled over on the floor, spilling food on the floor. He swore and laughed. Sherlock leaned back out the window, and John just shook his head.

"Shut that window, won't you? It's cold."

The window remained open, but a black pull-over hoodie was thrown John's way. If they ended up staying up until after midnight, neither of their parents objected. If there would forever be a stain on Sherlock's carpet from the food they'd spilt, nobody objected- except maybe Mycroft, and - if John realized once he got home that he still had Sherlock's hoodie, well - who was objecting? Not him.


	4. Chapter 4

General consensus seems to be either light Johnlock or just friendship. So. I'll be writing this as a friendship fic, but your goggles may come in useful for squinting at this if you'd rather see it as a Johnlock fic. Anyway. I'm going to be making the chapters longer from here on out... As the story goes along I will make sure to have any warnings at the beginning of the chapter.

Disclaimer applies, as usual. I don't own/make money off of/take credit for anything Sherlock, from any year or publication date.

Chapter Four

News

As the school year moved along, and they got farther into their studies, Sherlock and John spent more and more time together. John, after much convincing, finally managed to get Sherlock to attend a rugby game. Sherlock's objections had been that one-he did not like large crowds of people, two- he didn't like watching sports, and three- he wouldn't get to actually interact with John, so it wasn't like they were hanging out. Sherlock's blond friend eventually convinced the tall gangly youth to attend anyway, stating that he would be able to sit with Harry, and that his morale support by being there could, in the end, help them win the game. (Statistically speaking, John told him, people who are cheered on by someone do a better job.) So, Sherlock went. He spent the first quarter of the game watching with barely veiled interest, trying to follow the movements.

"Why is everyone so loud?" Sherlock asked. Harry turned to Sherlock, eyebrows raised to meet her choppy bangs.

"It's a game, Sherlock. They're all excited. Everyone wants their team to win."

"Why?" Harriet was distracted from answering when the stands erupted in noise. There was a scuffle on the field between a couple of players, and a lot of whistles being blown. Sherlock was lost, until he saw John stalking away from the group clutching his nose, which had begun to bleed profusely. Sherlock stood from his seat to get a better look over the heads of others who had already taken to their feet.

"Did you see that! That bastard hit my brother!" Harry was standing on her tip-toes, trying to see over the other heads. The lanky girl certainly shared a common trait with her brother in that she was shorter than average. This certain factor was playing against her in this circumstance. "Hey, sit for a minute, won't you?" Sherlock did so, and let out a grunt of surprise when she swung a leg over his shoulders. "Climbing up. Now hurry and stand up so I can see, won't you?" A bit disgruntled, but not keen on telling the spunky girl "no", Sherlock stood to his feet. "Ahh, this is much better! I'll tell you what's going on."

"I can see for myself, Harry," Sherlock said. The girl paid him no attention, rattling off about how you should be benched for the rest of the game for interfering with scoring moves, and how her brother did nothing to ask for a broken nose.

"Look now. He's gotten in trouble. Serves him right, the twat. At least they're starting back up."

Sherlock found himself more involved with the game, following the plays closely. Even after a while, Harry made no move to get down from his shoulders, and Sherlock let it be. A couple of thoughts had been running through his head the duration of the game since John's unfortunate collision with an elbow. _Neither of John's parents are here. Working- or- not present. Are they ever? _After Harry had so easily swung onto Sherlock's shoulders to watch the game, Sherlock had decided that she must be used to having John around and found it very easy to ask such a thing of Sherlock, since her brother was always doing things like that for her. This just added to the conclusion Sherlock had come to that John and Harry were very close. But not as friends, somehow. _Almost like he parents her, somehow._ Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts by a long whistle.

"Hey! They won! Yes!" Harry whooped and whistled, and Sherlock found himself joining in, clapping and nearly throwing Harry off his shoulders. As John made their way over to him, Harry snapped his picture. Sherlock heard another being taken, and looking up, discovered Harry taking one of herself on his shoulders. Sherlock smirked at her, trying to be upset but failing. Harry wolf-whistled at John, inspecting his nose.

"Beautiful, John. Really. Suits you well."

"Sod off, you goober." John laughed, and then looked the pair of them up and down. "Sherlock, you've become my sister's jungle-jim."

Sherlock crouched down, huffing in indignation, and Harry stepped off his shoulders gracefully. Running a hand through her wild hair, she proposed a soda run before they headed home. The boys agreed, and after John changed and got out of his after-game talk with the coach, they were on their way. They had sodas for dinner before taking the long way back to the Watson household. They entered the house, laughing at something Harry had muttered about Sherlock's "cool-turned up collars and dark coat."

"I've got a friend coming over, John. She'll be here in a little while." Harry began climbing the stairs in front of them.

"Who?" John asked, heading after her. Sherlock followed in their wake, content to listen and observe. This was the first time he'd been in their house, and he was currently close to information overload. _Kitchen not decorated, nor any other rooms of the house. Wife not home much. One chair in sitting area, facing tv. Obviously the husband's place, due to the explicitly-covered magazines on the floor beside it along with empty beer bottles. _As they made their way upstairs, Sherlock glanced at the frames on the wall. _Absent father, as assumed. Gained weight throughout the years and isn't in the majority of the later pictures. None from the last couple of years. _Sherlock took in a fresh stain on the stair's carpeted step, near the top. _Puke. John hasn't been sick, nor has he mentioned anyone in his house being sick. Less likely to mention if it's his father. Father. Alcoholic, then, couldn't make it to the bathroom. _In the hallway was a hamper of dirty clothes. A lady's uniform for waiting tables and a dirty apron lay atop it. _Harry works at the library. A woman's uniform. Mother works at the dinner on the corner of 9th and Bartholomew._

"Clara. You met her the other day, John. You like her."

"Okay."

Sherlock glanced at John, and then at Harry's bedroom door which had just closed behind her. "Girlfriend?"

John considered this for a moment. "Probably. They haven't been... _doing _anything..." John flushed slightly and cleared his throat. "So, probably girlfriend. She likes her a lot." Sherlock nodded, accepting what he already had deduced. That moment someone knocked on the door and John ran down to get it. Sherlock heard the door shut as John greeted someone, and footsteps coming upstairs. Greg, led by John, made his way into the bedroom.

"Hiya, Sherlock.'

"Hello, Lestrade."

"It's Greg," the boy smiled. Sherlock shrugged. He couldn't ever remember. It was just easier to call him by his last name. He would later make a joke that it was because the boy would eventually have to get used to going by "Lestrade" if he was to ever be taken seriously enough to take over at Scotland Yard.

John and Greg talked about rugby and the latest match, while Sherlock drew. John seemed to have scrap paper lying around everywhere, and a pencil wasn't too hard to come by. The chatter of voices floated from down the hall where Clara and Harry were, listening to music and laughing every few minutes. Sherlock had the brief thought that it would have been very exhausting to be a girl before he dismissed the notion and continued to sketch. He drew John, clutching his nose that afternoon at the game. On the flip-side of the paper, he drew the recliner downstairs, not excluding the lewd magazines and empty bottles. He wasn't sure where it came from, but he just drew what came to mind without thinking about it. Eventually he got bored and tossed the picture to the side.

"Anybody want a bite? I'm starving," Greg said. Sherlock shrugged. "John?"

"Sure. You know where the food's kept."

Greg got up and made his way downstairs. Sherlock listened to him stop and make his way back down the hall, inquiring at Harry's door if they wanted anything before making his way down to the kitchen. John rolled off his bed and onto the floor, groaning and stretching. Feeling something crinkling beneath him, he grabbed for the offending object. It was the paper Sherlock had drawn on earlier.

"What's this, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glanced up from the text he'd been reading from Mycroft. When he saw the paper, he took in the entirety of the scene. John's hand seemed to shake slightly, and his shoulders had gone rigid. Sherlock may not have been the first person in a room to pick up on social cues, but he wasn't that daft. Something was bothering John, seemingly to due with the photo. Sherlock made a grab for it- a mistake. John flinched backward, hands coming up in front of him slightly. Sherlock froze mid-reach, staring at John. The boy was still as well, before sliding off his bed and handing the photo to Sherlock.

"Sorry, John. I-"

"No, sorry. No. Don't be. I wasn't.. it wasn't you."

Sherlock shrugged. "Alright. You just jumped as though I'd-" Sherlock cut himself off mid-stream. _He thought I was going to hit him. _Sherlock blinked, and in that one blink, he had put together all he needed to know. _Lack of parents in family photos, especially father. John has parented Harry because his mother makes herself scarce. Can't blame her, since her husband- their father- is abusive, probably due to his alcohol intake. Abusive because who else would he flinch from when a hand is raised in this household? _

"You're doing that thing."

"What?" Sherlock shook his head. For a minute there he'd had forgotten he was with John.

"Tell me what just happened."

Sherlock stared at John. The boy's cheeks were flushed and his eyes dilated, lips pressed firmly together. He had sunk into a sitting position on his bed, hands on his legs.

"You flinched because you thought I was going to strike you- your father is alcoholic, your mother is often absent and you can't blame her seeing as you know how it is to be around him. You support Harry because nobody supports you so you know how it feels, making you by far one of the more outstanding older siblings in our corner of town. You don't have a lot of friends because you distance yourself from anyone you think would be ashamed of your family, which is most people. Probably why your mother moves schools so much, her attempt at showing her concern for you. A failing attempt, I'm thinking. You have never touched a drink in your life and would probably be offended if I offered you a smoke..?" The last statement was posed as a question, and John chuckled, shaking his head.

"Greg'll be back up in a minute. I'm trying to get him to quit."

Sherlock nodded. "Alright." John had a displeased- yet somehow proud- look on his face. Sherlock had to be glad at that moment that he wasn't as emotionally capable as others, or he might understand exactly what John was feeling.

"I don't know how you do it. All the figuring. Guess it's obvious now, though." John shrugged. Sherlock smirked.

"It wasn't that hard of a deduction, no. I've guessed for a while now." John nodded.

"So. Do you care? You don't have to stick around. We can be fair-weather friends."

Sherlock squinted in John's direction. Silence fell on the room for a moment. Sherlock looked away from John and his eyes lit on the piece of paper that had started this all. With a moment's decision, Sherlock grabbed for the photo and reached for the lighter in his pants pocket. Striding to the window, Sherlock leaned out of it. Feeling rather than seeing John behind him, Sherlock lit the corner of the page on fire. Once it hard burned down to where he grasped it, Sherlock let it go. The singed edge floated down to the alleyway between their two houses. Sherlock pulled himself back inside and glanced at John. The boy smiled sadly at him.

"That was a good picture of me, though."

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, not catching John's sarcasm.

"No, no. Sherlock. It was good."

"What was good?" Greg asked, coming back into the room. He carried a plate full of apple sandwiches- glorious things that Sherlock would learn to love very quickly. A slice of round apple, peanut butter, chocolate chips, and another peanut-butter laden slice of fruit on top. Apparently this was traditionally their food when Lestrade came over.

"These. They're wonderful. You'd make a wonderful wife, Greg." John smiled coyly at the boy.

"Shut it, or I won't tell you about the new case we're on."

Sherlock's ears perked up at that. He was always interested in listening to anything to do with the murder cases Greg got to go in on. The evening passed uneventfully, and the issue with John's family was pushed to the side. Sherlock had known, and it was alright. It would all be alright. They'd make sure of that.


	5. Chapter 5

So, my apologies on such a delay. We've had horrible weather, and the internet doesn't work when the lines are wet (bit of a problem, that.) I've been busy with work, as my boss is a regular ol' bag o dicks, and we've been gone a lot.. Just been horribly busy and fan fiction unfortunately comes secondary to a lot for me. Any who.. Here's a longer chapter to make up for the lateness. As usual, disclaimers apply (not mine, no profit, never will be or will make any, etc., etc.,) Warnings: some mention of psych-wards, a bit of swearing- John's dad is awful, the normal.

Chapter Five

"Van Gogh Did It Better"

"I can't believe you actually did that, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"You're not the kind of person to do things for someone just because they requested it of you. Was this a friend-of-a-friend type of thing?"

"That's where you're mistaken, Lestrade. I didn't do it for you and certainly not for our connections."

"Personally, I wish you hadn't done it."

"But they caught the man, John. Isn't that enough for you?"

"Personally, yes, but it was a little much, don't you think?"

"Which bit? He did a lot..."

"Well, yes. I mean specifically the whole getting-yourself-admitted-to-a-psych-ward-full-of-killers part."

"All for the sake of science. I assume the yard is practically a bee-hive, buzzing with talk of your no-doubt-impending promotion?"

"Well, of course. Thank you for that, good job, on your part."

"Good job? Hmm." John shook his head, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall that encircled the rugby field. "Good riddance, you mean." Sherlock glared at him, twirling a curl around his pointer finger. After a moment, he released it with a bounce, and dropped his hands to his lap, shrugging. The wind howled by them as the chatter in the field provided as a back-drop to cover their not-so-secret secret conversation.

"Think of it this way, John. You appreciate art. The discovered facts and proceeding capture and arrest of a long-time fugitive from the yard that I discovered- I am the Van Gogh of deduction, and that was my Starry Night." One look at John and the self-proclaimed detective threw his hands into the air with dismissal. "No? I give up."

"Van Gogh did it better."

"How?"

"He didn't get himself admitted to a loony bin for the sake of science!?"

"Wasn't he-" Greg was cut off as Sherlock broke in.

"Don't be daft, John, he couldn't help what reasons he was admitted for."

"Dammit, Sherlock. Never mind. You're the daft one." The friends glared at each other, tension crackling in the air with every blink. Greg glanced back and forth between the two of them and nodded twice to himself.

"Right. I'mma pop off, got to get going anyway. Y'all have fun."

The tension dissipated and John called good-bye to Greg. The silvery-haired boy waved over his shoulder as he continued on across the field. Sherlock glanced at John. "I am sorry to have bothered you."

"Concerned, Sherlock. I'm your friend. No warning, just what I could gather on my own, and you're stuck in a psych ward for three days with no word or warning. How else am I supposed to feel?"

"Concerned, then. I am sorry to have concerned you." Sherlock bit his lip, and John could practically see the thoughts going through his head. He waited for the next comment. "I wasn't stuck, though. I could've left at any time." emThere we go. /emJohn shook his head, and suddenly couldn't repress the slow grin that lit across his face and turned itself into a deep chuckle, then a loud laugh. Sherlock snickered to himself. Whether it was exhaustion from the last few days or what, John didn't know, but it was alright. It would always be alright, hadn't Sherlock said that? So what if his friend has been in a psych ward for a few days? At least he hadn't needed to, really.

"Funny story, that. It wasn't so much funny as it was amazing work on Sherlock and Greg's part. Greg had, with a stroke of luck, been asked to help with a case that involved a Scotsmen who had gone into hiding. The case file was gruesome- interestingly so, but bloody, even for John's taste- and he saw blood more and more often with his interning at the clinic. The man in question had been a serial murderer who removed and replanted facial features of multiple victims and people, making them unidentifiable, often for long periods of time. He had been training to be a surgeon, as Sherlock uncovered, and had spent weeks battling his own death when he changed his own face to resemble nothing like before. He'd then admitted himself to a psych ward as a "Stephen McNew" and had been sitting there, right inside the city he so easily terrorized, until now. It was reasonably understood, then, when John flipped his lid. Sherlock had disappeared the previous Friday, and spent until Sunday evening in the psych ward. Unbeknownst to everyone except Mycroft, of course- (John had made a mental note to spill orange juice in the older brother's lap next time he had breakfast with them.) When Sherlock returned, he had snuck into John's house through the open window, and woken John and Harriet. Then he'd made a call, and ignored John's inquiries. "_Why exactly are you disguising your voice, Sherlock. Is that the Yard? What's going on?"_ They had then made their way across town, and stood across the street from a psych ward. Moments later, a cacophany of blaring lights and sirens came around the corner, and they watched as "Stephen McNew" was arrested. Greg met them after everything had died down, and the story had come out. Now, as they sat in the rugby field, the weekend's events catching up to them, John had to admit it emwas /emalright. Every day, he realized, he learned that he knew less and somehow more about Sherlock, and while it ought to scare him away- it didn't. Maybe it was mutual observance of each other's difficulties and the choice to remain friends, but he was fine with that.

Sherlock, on the other hand, still knew too-little about John, which was rare for Sherlock. Sure, he knew more than anyone knew about the blond-haired boy, but he was constantly being surprised by him. He desperately wanted to meet John's parents, but the other boy''s careful interference in their plans meant that he'd yet to meet either parent. Sherlock wasn't kept out of the loop for long, though, and when it did happen, he almost wish'd that it was one thing he'd stayed ignorant on. Mycroft always was telling him how slow he was.

Word had gotten around with the other students of Sherlock's stay in the psych ward. The repercussions started out in simple things- such as curious glances and whispering in the hallways between classes. Then, Sally Donovan made the first comment. A muttered name, chuckles from the rest of the class. _Freak. _So it began, and so it ended at the end of the day, when classes were dismissed and everyone went their separate ways. It was a mutual decision between John and Sherlock to call off their usual routine of eating and studying and go straight to their after-study game of chess. Sherlock's house was decided on, and they wearily made their way home. When they arrived, they found that Mycroft was the only one home out of the rest of the family, and he practically kicked John and Sherlock out of the house. He had a friend over- Anthea, she'd introduced herself as- and they were having a conference call.. or something. The entire living area was cluttered with computers, monitors, speakers, multiple laptops, and a couple stacks of paper that slowly got scattered all over the room. Mycroft, with some low mutterings, had Sherlock convinced to leave the house within two minutes of discussion. Inevitably, they ended up at John's. The chess board came out, shoes came off and the school-regulation ties and jackets were thrown to the side as they settled in across from each other at John's desk. The hours passed quickly, neither saying much, moving chess pieces. Then, as fate (or ill-luck, one or the other,) would have it, John's father walked into the house, completely shit-faced and out of it. The first warning they had of his arrival was a crash downstairs and angry swearing. Sherlock glanced over at John, taking in the look on his friend's face.

"Damn... Sherlock, you better leave." John glanced up at his friend and made his way to the window, opening it. "This way's probably best." John motioned to the window, and raised his eyebrows. "Well?" Sherlock, of course, had no intention of leaving. He was saved from having to reply when there was an angry yell, prompting John to dash into the hall and down the stairs. Sherlock, without hesitation, followed immediately.

John's father stood in the kitchen, across from the woman Sherlock had met a few days ago- John's mother. There was broken glass on the floor, glistening in a puddle of alcohol.

"John! Tell your mother that I'm right." The man glared at John, eyebrows raised.

"About what?" John's voice was calm, steady. Sherlock glanced at him, and in the one look decided that John's voice portrayed none of his real emotions. _Eyes dilated. Hands steady, no sign of everyday tremor. Lips drawn. Fear, discomfort. _There was a hand on Sherlock's elbow, and he turned to see Harriet behind him, peering around his shoulder. The room was struck silent, eerily quiet- the only noise coming from where water was bubbling on the stove.

John's father rolled his eyes, making a wounded sound. "About what? Doesn't ma'er, you've always.. You're on her side." He motioned at his wife, laughing- a deep, guttural laugh, almost wet sounding. Nasally. Gross. "Only 'cause she's a whore."

John's mother sniffled, eyes wide and glassy with unshed fear. At that, John started forward. Sherlock went to grab him, but was pushed out of the way by Harry. She reached for John, pulling his sleeve with enough force Sherlock was prepared to hear it rip. "John- don't."

There was a gasp from their mother when the burly man grabbed Harriet and John, pushing them in opposite directions and forcefully separating them. John shook his head. Harry pleaded for a ceasefire, for the two to stop arguing.

"He's not going to agree, Harry. You've got to win, because you know you're wrong." John's shoulders went rigid and he stood as tall as his short height allowed. "Go ahead. Take a swing." The man narrowed his eyes at John, and the blonde boy sneered. "Why haven't you? Can't decide which one of me to go for, can you?"

That was the last straw for the man, and with a growl of rage, he struck out wildly, shoving John backward and into the counter. Grabbing for a handhold, John's arm hit the pot of boiling water and sent it sloshing as his arm met the red-hot stove top. As his foot slipped in the puddle of glass shards and alcohol and he went down, Sherlock moved across the room, dodging the angry man and a crying mother as he knelt by John's side.

"Dammit... shit." John swore, mouth clenched in pain. Sherlock grabbed him, prepared to help him up, but John steeled himself and pulled himself up on Sherlock's arm.

"Who're you?"

Sherlock wheeled on the man. Harriet stood to the side, holding her mother against her side, the two crying. Sherlock practically hissed as he spoke. "I'm the one who will call the police and have them haul your ass into jail on charges of abuse, two charges of theft, one of assault and battery, for illegal drug usage and a couple other things I won't mention in front of your family." The man glared at Sherlock, but didn't move. Sherlock looked at Harriet and nodded his head toward the hall. She nodded and left with her mother. Sherlock waited until he heard them reach the top of the stairs before he made any other moves. John glanced at him, clutching his arm to his body.

"John-" the man raised his hand, as though to shrug.

"No." John shook his head. "You don't speak to me."

Sherlock glanced at John, then at the man. Reaching over, he flipped off the oven and then grabbed John by his jacket and turned, leaving the kitchen. As they made their way upstairs, Sherlock was suddenly aware of his head pounding rapidly in sync with his heart. What had just happened? Was that a usual occurrence in this house? Sherlock didn't ask.

Leading, Sherlock took John down the hall and into the bathroom. John sat down on the edge of the tub, balancing one elbow on his knee and letting his head sink, staring at the floor. Sherlock turned the tap on and looked expectantly at his friend. John, looked down at his rolled sleeves, reached for the buttons and hissed as the skin on his arm stretched. His hands were pushed out of the way as Sherlock unbuttoned the shirt, allowing John to pull it off the rest of the way himself. John immediately put his arm under the flow of water, hissing. Sherlock went to rummage the cabinet for a cream, finding what he was looking for and setting it on the counter, alongside a bottle of pain medication and a long bandage. Sherlock had closed his mind to thinking emotionally at the moment, or he would've been more aware of the implications of what it meant that they had all the supplies on hand for this sort of situation. John sat, head pressed against the sink, arm under the water. Sherlock leaned over him and inspected the skin.

"Second degree burn, bordering from first to third in degrees of severity." The skin was red and swollen around a four-inch, curved white area of skin that was angry and raised. "Most people would recommend getting medical attention at this point. The heat caused a-"

"Sherlock. I know- I am studying to be a doctor, remember?" John smirked at Sherlock, a smile that didn't quite convince Sherlock that he was alright. The dark haired boy nodded, shrugging. They were silent, allowing John's arm to remain under the flow of water. Downstairs, a door slammed shut. Sherlock excused himself and went downstairs, affirming that John's dad had left. Locking the door, Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. For a moment he debated cleaning up the mess or going back up to John, but decided on the latter. The mess could be cleaned up later. Harry would probably do it, anyway. She'd need something to do to feel useful once their mother fell asleep.

When Sherlock reentered the bathroom, he slid down to sit against the wall across from John. "That happen often?"

"Not often. Just happens."

Sherlock glanced at John, gauging his reaction to his question. He seemed unfazed, almost dulled. "Do you always urge him on?" John turned his head to look at Sherlock, eyebrows raised in questioning, though he didn't answer. Sherlock shrugged. "You weren't afraid of him, obviously. Not fearful for yourself, so you don't mind standing up to him and saying something you know will set him off."

"Sorry? Are you saying I instigated that?"

"No, not instigated, just set in motion. Not by any means your fault. This sort of thing is normal, I think. I can't say I've dealt with it on a first hand basis- except just now, of course, my family is far from it- but that is what usually happens. It's all about psychology, John." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, standing to look at John's arm. It had been plenty of time since they put it in the water, and John turned off the tap and patted it dry with a towel. Sherlock handed him the cream, and John took it with slightly more force than necessary. Sherlock unwrapped the bandage, standing by until John needed it.

"If you hadn't said something, it probably wouldn't have happened, though."

"Shut-up, Sherlock. Just... Shut-up. Okay?" John looked to the side, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. His breath came quickly, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sherlock paused for a moment in the middle of wrapping the bandage around the cloth they'd placed over the burn. Something was off. Something he said? Resuming his wrapping, he sighed.

"It wasn't your fault, I'm not saying that completely. Sons are a lot like fathers, although traits can be used differently, and you're not that much different from him. Don't let this bother you, John. I'm fine, you're fine... It's not that big of a deal, in the whole scheme of things. People- I can't understand why-"

"Sherlock!" John stood up, grasping the edge of the sink with his now-bandaged arm. His knuckles were white and the tremor had returned, Sherlock noticed. He waited for John to say something else. The blonde boy's cheeks were red, heat rising to his face and ears. "You don't understand. You can't. I'm sorry, but that's all. You may be the great Sherlock Holmes who can figure out anything about bloody anybody, but you just won't get it. Not everyone has a freak-life like yours were everything is fine all the time. Some of us have lives outside of your small emotional range."

Sherlock's eyes met John's. Sherlock nodded. "I know what you'll say next, so I'll go. Forgive me for offending you." Sherlock, with that, turned and marched downstairs, out the front door, and into his own house. As he hurried inside, slamming the door behind him, there was an irritated yell from Mycroft. Sherlock ignored him and grabbed a glass from the kitchen, filling it with water and running up the stairs. It was only once he got to his room and settled himself into his chair at his desk did he remember that he'd left his bag of school supplies in John's room. Glancing across the room, Sherlock looked out his window. The neighboring window was shut, the blinds let down and closed, curtains pulled shut.

Sherlock, after a moments frustration at leaving his bag- (it did have his current project stashed in the front pocket, which happened to need refrigerating before long) got up, storming to his own window. He threw the window down, glass shuddering as he slammed it closed. Latching the locks, he switched off the bedroom lights and let his own blinds down before crawling into bed.


End file.
